Foundations
by Chimuwaku
Summary: A series of drabbles pertaining to the Founding Era, mostly Hashirama-centric. ALL FOUND ON MY TUMBLR.
1. Saturday Morning

Weeds sprout through the rich soil of Hashirama's garden, crowding around creamy camellia and patches of vibrant-red amaryllis. Crouched like a warrior in waiting, Hashirama pulls and tugs at the defiant, ghastly things, mouth set in a firm line, and hefts one up and up until it pop, pop, _pops_ out of the ground.

The thin, pinkish callous across the palm of his hand ruptures.

He yelps, the sound akin to a startled, white-chested bear, and falls off his heels, landing head-first into a muddy puddle. The sky above is a whirling movement of light blues and cloudy grays, and Hashirama remains in his awkward position, limbs sprawled and chocolate hair decorated with dripping, mucky brown goo.

His head rolls to the side with a great, big sigh. Then, a chuckle. A laugh. Soon enough, Hashirama Senju is cackling like a giddy hyena; he ends up with mud in his mouth, spits it out, and laughs some more.

It's some time later, once rediscovering what air is, that he notes in his far off perception a puny little snowball trotting around his bonsai. The thing measures to his thumb from where he lays, and he supposes that up close, the creature mustn't be bigger than the size of two hand. So he sits up, speckles of mud splattering against his bare shoulders, and squints.

So much fluff covers the animal, and it is a long time before Hashirama discerns it cannot be a rabbit: it's walking on four legs too gracefully, and there is no hop in its step. Instead, it springs up on its hind legs, batting at a hanging leaf, and then gives his plant a stare.

Hashirama leaps onto his feet, approaching. There was a time prior when he'd helped an injured bird, and another when a racoons nest was invaded by hawks and he had successfully urged the birds away with the help of his Mokuton. Most animals tolerated his presence.

This one, however, hisses. And no wonder…

It's a cat.

A _cat._

Ever since the invasion of Konoha by way of these creatures, Hashirama has nearly _lived _to see them — and he does, every day. They crowd around the Uchiha quarters especially, and this is a wonder to the likes of a Senju, who grew up as if cats were little more than myth. The only cats Hashirama knew of before now were Ninneko, and none of these experiences were especially pleasant.

He has scars to prove it.

But normal cats should adore him. He is ever-willing to grant them the attention they seek, and if he were to be completely honest, they hold a grace he admires and a playfulness unknown to most other animals. They are soft and warm. He could pet them all day, curl up in bed beside one, and cuddle.

When he reaches to pick this one up, however, it swipes at him, and in the moment just before claws mar his cheek, he drops it — her. At least he was able to discern her gender. She does not run away. Instead, he receives a stare.

"That's a good kitty," he murmurs, ducking low. His lengthy hair swings to the side, splashing a drop of mud directly between her eyes, and there is a long silence as her ear twitches, until she finally prances away in the opposite direction.

The opposite direction being the back entrance of his house.

He follows her again, of course, and finds her on his counter, lapping up the leftovers of Miso soup. She doesn't even spare him a look, content on finishing his breakfast, and Hashirama shrugs, headed towards the faucet of his sink. There's no use in shooing her away; it wasn't as if he was going to finish eating, and he might as well let her enjoy it.


	2. Numbness

There is a deep ache within his bones, the bitter chill of December piercing through worn, marred flesh, and Hashirama dusts his fingertips along the cool metal railing of the hospital bed. A woman stands to his right, touches the bare skin of his exposed wrist, carresses a pulse point ever so gently, and the soothing gesture is too routine. With her touch follows a deep-rooted guilt, one that decades upon decades have given him time to brood over, and he is too weary, as always, to voice that to his wife; because with every kind gesture is this rush of calamity, a guilt that feeds and festers in his chest, and he suffocates, even as the brilliance of her intuition reaches out for him as he drowns.

She has seen him grieve, brought him comfort during the darkest of nights, but she will never save him from these waves. They have carried him back and forth throughout life, pulled him one way or the other, and today — today they will finally succeed. Down. Down is where he will fall.

"Brother."

The voice is not his own, nor is it truly the man resting in bed; it is too raspy, empty, broken, this fragile, wavering whisper that isn't fitting for his younger sibling; but Hashirama is quick to reach out, willowy fingers finding the mess of snow-white hair, and he pushes the mess to the side as if with that one movement, Hashirama may push away every year made in error. It cannot be erased, no, never; but it can be acknowledged and washed away, just as every tear that has been shed.

They have, in an odd way, found peace with one another. After so long, all these years, Hashirama's naivety has withered, and he sees his little brother in all of his culpability. The anguish is not only the elder's to shelter, as Hashirama once believed; they had both suffered independently, in their own unsightly way, and now finally, Hashirama may make amends.

"I'm here," Hashirama manages, his own voice weathered in age. "I'm here, until—"

"I understand. I can feel it…"

"Are you in any pain?" he asks, hand shaking against the other's pale forehead. A shiver racks Hashirama's body, and he is reminded how frail they have become; time has unleashed the wonders of retirement from the life of a shinobi, and this is both pleasing and uncomfortable, as their generation will forever be marked by bloodshed.

"Only numbness," comes Tobirama's honest reply, even as his voice falters. He peers up at his older brother through tattered eyelashes, outstretches a hand to grab his tan wrist, and again, that comforting touch sends a pain straight to his heart. Beside him, Mito reassures Tobirama with soft words, but Hashirama is left in silence, and soon — soon it will be like this, alone until his own fire has died out.

Most shinobi perish before enduring this fate he has resigned himself to, and if that is the price he must pay for redemption, then Hashirama will endure with a smile.

If his brother may leave this world before watching another sibling die, then Hashirama will endure with a smile.

It is only a matter of time.


	3. A Summer's Bloom

**A/N: **Hashirama-centric. Subtle HashiMito.

* * *

Sweat trickles down Hashirama's brow, falling into the incline of an upturned nose, and he wipes at the tiny droplets with the back of his left wrist, simultaneously shaking away a clump of hair clinging to his forehead. A golden hair tie gleams in the beams of afternoon sun, peeking out from loose strands of milk chocolate; it hangs like satin along the curve of his neck, spilling out along broad shoulders and swaying with the gentle August winds as he tugs, tugs, and pulls stubborn crabgrass from the earth, digging up roots with the fine precision of a thin blade.

With knees enshrouded in the soil and grime buried behind fingernails, and despite the knot of a crick in his neck, Hashirama is most at ease like this, underneath the clear sky and kneeling over an expanse of greenery he's given life to with his own bare hands. There is something fulfilling about a garden made from scratch, without the miraculous powers of his Mokuton, and pride swells behind his ribcage as he spots an array of sunflowers that stand erect and tall, bearing the fruit of success.

Something tickles his right shoulder, and when Hashirama turns head, a Red Helen skirts its wings along his sleeve. He catches sight of midnight black flapping away, spots of red and yellow blending together, and the small creature, with its symmetrical patterns and curious antenna, plants itself atop a nearby bonsai.

Even as he continues his efforts of pulling weeds, yanking roots and tucking back his lose bangs, whenever he chances a glance upward, the butterfly remains.

As midday fades to darkening skies and the cicadas' hum resonates throughout Hashirama's backyard, a worn-out sigh escapes chapped lips; at least he can say with certainty that no more of these persistent, inappropriate grasses remain – for the time being. As if on cue, the gentle scratching of a door catches his attention, and in his peripheral he notes that the sound startles his new friend. There is the last flutter of dancing wings as it goes off, off, and disappears into the darkness.

"It's late, Hashirama. Will you be joining us for dinner? Tsubaki is becoming restless."

He peers up, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and laughs quietly at his wife's posture; she leans her weight on one leg, arms folded, looking absolutely ridiculous in doing so with her rounded tummy, as it grows heavy with the life of their second child. But ridiculous is a subjective term, and to him – a man of quite ridiculousness himself – Mito is beautiful, even if her pregnant temper is known to strike cold fear in the gravest of men.

"Ah! Yes, yes, I'm coming!" he shouts back, shifts with a palm on one thigh, and pushes his weight up to stand on two steady feet, wiping the dirt on his pants; but before he follows the trail of fire-red silk bouncing from her scalp to the middle of her back with every receding step, he turns, takes a glance at the orange hues of a setting sun and speckled-pink clouds.

The soft summer winds catch a free lock of his hair once more, and Hashirama shuts his eyes, takes a shallow breath, and allows himself to feel.

_This is peace._


	4. Winter Falls

Crisp snow sticks to the sole of Hashirama's right sandal, toes bare to the frosty air, and he kicks up, each whoosh the tune of his intent focus; but he inevitably glances up, and falters at the clouds hanging overhead in smoky puffs, illuminated by the crescent moon peeking through this deep, dark expanse of constant warfare. Debris of countless fire building like the ashed fumes of a fireplace.

His clothes hang on a branch of the nearby pine, dancing in the soft breeze as Hashirama turns, steadying both heels on the slick earth, and spots the white of his fluttering scarf. Icy sweat beads down on aching shoulders, breath more visible with each pant, and in the flicker of his thoughts, he notes stiff fingers and toes, and a sore ankle peaking from the leg of loose pants hanging from his waist.

His chakra thrums, now an instinct of his eighteen years, but he allows himself to fall back, chocolate tresses spilling like molten fudge across packed snow.

A true medic would scold even the wisest for such an action; now he is only human, craving the caress of a numbing sting, and this captivates an oppressed, boiling, scorching burn. His head tips back, a pleasant sigh passing pale, chapped lips.

How nice it would be, he muses, to be one with the snow. How simple a life without care, with only the truth of eventually melting; there is no reason to fret, as the snow would accept that when the rays of sunlight decorate the world, and the weather warms, it will die.

How simple a life it must be, to come and die, come and die, so easily.

_Take me with you, _he breathes, but without anyone to hear, it dies on the roof of his mouth. Then he turns to the side, pressing a chaste cheek against the chill, and laughs.

_But only for a little while, alright? I'm sure it'll snow again tomorrow._


	5. Dear Tobirama

_Dear Tobirama,_

_I never intended to leave you first. I'd rather have lived to be an old, old man, burying my old, old little brother, and perhaps that's a strange thing to say, but I like to think I know you enough to say that you'll understand._

_We've had our differences throughout life, fought like any brothers would; but that has never defined our relationship, though I've truthfully had my worries. Doubts. Had I been a good older brother? Had I given you all that I intended to? _

_I can now die with the confidence that I'd been the best I could… despite my faults, despite all I've put you through. But Tobirama, I've never quite voiced this properly…and I can't die without writing this down:_

_I have always loved you. From the moment Mother gave birth to you, I must've clung to your baby face. Even in these last breaths of mine, I can recall your first birthday. Such a quiet, adorable baby, and you were getting all the attention. My best smile couldn't steal that moment from you, and perhaps that's when it started…_

_I wanted it. I wanted to be the treasured one, the one that shone brightest, the one that stood out, I wanted the attention Mother and Father were giving you. And eventually, when Kawarama and Itama came along, and they stole a bit of that light, I wanted to take it from them as well._

_Of course, looking back…it was so immature of me, so absolutely ridiculous, so greedy…and I regret that in the end, I still allowed it. It is one of few regrets I've not yet come to terms with, and will carry with me to my grave, and I'm sorry, so sorry that our roles switched, that you had to be the older brother, and I the younger…_

_This is why you've lived believing I would place another — be it one of our lost brothers, a friend, Madara — over you. I should have been a role model, a sense of comfort, the person who told you that it's okay to make mistakes, that you will grow from them. I wanted to, but I was too afraid, too lost in my own world, too busy chasing my problems and not fixing them._

_Please forgive me, Tobirama. I love you, love you so much; and I think I can accept death's fate, take a smile with me alongside the regrets, now that I've written this last note to you._

_I am ready to die, little brother. Remember that this is not a final goodbye; not only I, but everyone else, will be waiting for you on the other side. Don't join us too quickly though, because you've still a wonderful life to live with the people who need you most. Konoha needs someone to proceed me, after all, and there is no one else I now trust more than you to take on the role of Nidaime Hokage._


	6. Poetry

"As…wi…with…w_ithered—_"

A small finger skimmed along the worn words, one tedious page after another, and Hashirama squinted like an old man peering through broken glasses; and each word stumbled and jumbled together on top of one another, blending into a mess that had him flustered and amazed. He'd been eager to pick out the biggest book, paying little mind to the genre, and hadn't even known what it was until flipping through and noting that the lines were all different, the spacing, the structure — everything.

_Poetry, _it had said.

But what was poetry? It was nothing he'd heard of before, certainly not something his father taught; a man of war would never speak of these things, and Hashirama was learning his literacy through other means. But whatever it was…

_Whatever this is, it's beautiful!_

Many of the words were too complex for him to understand, and even the ones he may have known, he couldn't properly discern. But regardless, this was some really pretty stuff — nature, emotions, stories, and…and love, like in the fairy tales.

He spent hours hunched over in his favorite hiding space — a tree hollow, one of the biggest trees around — and didn't go back home until his stomach was growling loud enough to scare away the animals, and he was bawling, tears streaming down his face and staining the weathered paper; then he closed the book, cradling the precious thing, and decided that poetry was officially his new favorite thing to read.


	7. Bitter Fuck

**A/N: **Mature Content. HashiMada.

* * *

Snowflakes still cling to his hair, the winter night so bitter that his fingertips are like ice, and yet the moment he steps foot inside there is this shared look across the room, an indescribable heat between the Uchiha and Senju rising up to suffocate them; and in a half-second he's there, slamming Madara against the wall as if he could drive him through, lips colliding with a force only comparable to the battlefield. A month apart, a month to think, ache, miss, a month to love a little more. Every kiss burns, burns, burns, the winter night forgotten, and nails rack their body. Hashirama sees crimson everywhere — in those eyes, on his skin, and the flashing lights that blind him. A red fire already consumes his existence, getting hotter, hotter, changing further to blues and white-hot bliss, and his cock throbs against his lover as clothes are tossed aside and legs wrap tight around his waist; he wastes no time, desperation taking over as he gives a hard thrust and buries himself within his unprepared lover in full, primal need.

"Fuck—!" Madara nearly screams, clawing at his Senju and almost punching his lights out; but Hashirama pounds him into the wall over and over, making him burn painfully as if in the pits of hell.


	8. Unfamiliarity

**A/N:** Mature Content. Hashirama-centric. Hints of HashiMada.

* * *

"Fuck—"

The word tastes unfamiliar on his lips, he thinks, but perhaps that's the sweet sake talking — far, far too sweet. He is beyond intoxicated, he thinks, but perhaps that's a good thing; because that is all he thinks. He does not pay mind to the hair that's all the wrong color, the eyes that are a tad too bright. The skin too soft, body too unfamiliar. Doesn't care that he'll never even know this woman's name.

This isn't like him, he'll think in the morning. He doesn't do these things, he's stronger than this.

It's been a month…

If they knew— if they knew how weak he was, they'd never trust him again.

He's not cut out to be a leader, they think he is, but he's not. He's not strong like they think, he's not this magical savoir, and he knows this better than ever because he's failed, because he couldn't keep _**him**_ from leaving, and it eats at him from his very gut and makes him want to just—

He stumbles out of soiled sheets and pukes his heart out like never before.


	9. A New Love, a Second Chance

**A/N: **Mature content. HashiMito.

* * *

His lips run down her neck, collarbone, shoulders, marking every bit of her that he can reach, until resting between either breast and kissing the exact spot her heart beats wildly. Fingers entwine against the bed, just beside her left ear, while his other hand guides himself to her entrance. She arcs her back eagerly, and he smiles up at his new wife like he's smiled at her dozens of times before — with all the love he could possibly give. But in his eyes is this sparkle of something new, something so pure and unbreakable. There is no doubt.

"Are you ready, love?" he murmurs then.

He's not surprised to find that she is, and yet it warms his very being when she says yes; that heat blossoming to new heights as he buries himself inside her with a breathy "I love you".


	10. Bliss and Agony

**A/N: **Mature Content. HashiMada.

* * *

Hashirama cries out as scalding fire shoots through his spine , sprouting from tense muscles he tries to relax; he must relax, or the burn will never stop, and the man on top of him must know this too — know it all too well. There are no words exchanged, no "are you okay?", just this shared look between spinning tomoe and wide, chocolate drops, and these few seconds are an eternity of pain and passion as his own nails dig deep inside the flesh of pale shoulders; thick blood trickling onto the white sheets beneath them.

"I'm okay," he assures anyways, managing a tender smile up at his lover. Only then does Madara let his hot breath fan out against Hashirama's neck, taking an earlobe between his lips and sucking hard. He withdraws almost completely, before thrusting deep inside his Senju once more; biting down on an ear to replace that agonizing burn with electricity.


	11. Friendship

Shinobi weren't supposed to cry. That was one of the most important rules instilled in him at the young age of five; you do not allow yourself to be weak emotionally, because it makes you weak as a warrior. But right now, Hashirama didn't care. There was only one thing on his mind right now, as he lay curled up by the pond in his yard.

Madara. Madara _Uchiha. _

Somewhere deep in his heart, he had always known. That hair of his, those eyes, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, and even the way he dressed — all of it was Uchiha. His best friend…his _best friend…_was seen as the enemy. But to Hashirama…they were just two friends having fun by the river.

That's what they were — not enemies, not their clan, not shinobi. They were the best of friends, escaping in their own little world, finding a place where they could talk and smile and laugh and _cry,_ and it was okay because_ they were friends._

And now. was expected to…

_No. _

He wiped his tears, forcing himself to remain strong not as a warrior, like his father demanded, but as a friend.

_I wont hurt you.  
I wont let them touch you.  
i'll save you, Madara._


	12. This is War

A thick veil of sweat gleams in the sweltering, summer sun, producing tiny fractures of light on fair, porcelain-marred skin, and curled in one fist is the staff of a great gunbai, the second hand bare from weaponry. Screeches echo in Madara's left ear, and he sways to the right, basking in the splatter and howl of a katana against his fan.

Blood trickles down his limbs, but sluggishly so, producing an acute ache within his subconscious. No matter how he ignores this itch and dances with the lightest (Or second lightest? He scowls at the thought.) step, this itch flows through his gunbai, extends to the burn in his thighs, and at the call of his younger brother — to which he'd forgotten he was even sparring with — Madara stops.

"Is something on your mind?" Izuna asks.

Madara shakes his head. "Fight."

"If—"

"I said _fight_. The more you talk, the weaker you are. We don't have a use for weakness."

So they fight until the sun shifts to the west, and with no victor and the endless caw of blade and flesh, Madara finally relents.

"With this strength," Izuna pants, and his eyes whirl into the crimson red of the Mangekyou Sharingan. "With this strength, it wont be long before we've won the war. The Senju can't avoid their fate forever."

"Fate?"

"Yes, fate." Izuna smiles. "They wont be able to hurt us any longer, once we've won the war."

"Do not indulge in foolish notions. Strength is all that matters, not this 'fate' you speak of. If you wish to survive…"

"And how else will I survive, unless we win? You know their kind. Betrayers, are they not?"

And later, as Madara lies atop his futon in the grime of his own training, pondering this very question, he finds himself at one particular answer he despises more than any other: No, they may not _all _be betrayers, because there is this subtle notion that had things somehow been different, the face of that blubbering idiot he once called his best friend might have stayed by his side.

But this is an endless warfare, one which has no place for such hope, and he resolves himself to this truth, because to hate Hashirama is far easier than to withstand that annoying prickle of hope.


	13. Awkward

**A/N:** _Slightly _hormonal. Rated T. All Hashirama!

* * *

Candlelight flickers on the yellowed parchment curled in the palm of Hashirama's left hand. In his right, pressed so tightly as to urge the skin to callous, rests a tarnished, silver dip pen; a canister of ink teeters next to his bare foot, the wind's caress gentle through the opening in the sequoia.

He squints, scrawls on a separate scroll, and toys with the ends of his hair — now resting past his shoulders. The hair sticks in clumps, straight and messy, and Hashirama flicks his wrist, tucking his uneven bangs behind each ear.

Gradually, his fidgeting travels to his legs and feet, tapping toes and humming out of thought. He itches the score of pimples marking his forehead, pushing his hair back once more; the wishes of his father ring loudly, and with one final heave of will he takes the ribbon around his wrist, tying his hair together in a baby ponytail.

Free at last.

Hashirama scribbles an endless stream of words, noting the medical processes, and a flash of lightning illuminates the old etchings of anatomy and chakra points on the weathered scroll. Time ticks by, and when his pen meets its cap, raindrops plop onto the outside earth.

_Now what?_

With a yawn, the young Senju stretches back, feet sprawled and legs spread; another gust of wind hurls through the tree hollow, and this time it rustles his hakama, cool air traveling up his legs.

He itches his ankle, but somehow, the itch is further ingrained, and Hashirama begins to shift from one side to the other, willing this persistence away, hand furled dutifully at his thighs; but his fingertips warm the skin through the fabric, and Hashirama stares into his lap for one long second before placing the palm of his hand on his crotch.

A whine spills from his slacken mouth.

Roaring thunder rouses him from his ministrations, and he leaps out of his skin, back straight and arms flailing. The back of his hand throbs as it meets cool glass, and with the turn of his head he spots black ink trickling to the hem of his pants…

He would have to explore _that feeling _another time.


	14. Another Story

There are many privileges a man could ask for: he could beg for wealth, for forgiveness, for the tears to burn a little less hot or the hugs to clutch a little more tight; he could cry to his higher power or scream at the devil; he could tear the seams asunder and pray for them to conjoin; he could plead for death or life (either the latter because of the former, or the former because of the latter). A man may also ask for an end to world hunger, for worldwide success, for a lapse in war.

Madara did not ask.

Or, to be more precise, Madara did not ask with _words. _He was a man of action, a man of doing—a man of doing when the night whispered lullabies to the stars. When his brothers started falling to their graves (Metaphorically speaking: The pyre actually burned their bones to ash.) Madara did not demand the gods to bring them home.

(He was far too young to understand who the gods _were, _but if he had known, he would not have asked.)

So it was to be expected, then, that Madara would never ask for l-o-v-e_. _

But whether or not he once—or still?—knew of l-o-v-e…is another story entirely.


	15. Impossible

Laughter dances through the many flowers of his garden, whirling around in an angel of blonde hair and rich, golden eyes—her bare feet digging in the dirt and grass. Hashirama's toes wiggle around the greenery, callouses tingling, and he sits cross-legged, bunching a fistful of the grass in his palm; he peers down at his hands, however wrinkled they may be, and drops his eyelids at half-mast.

He takes a deep breath, and there it is.  
The riverbank.

He can nearly taste the air, the fresh carp, the water droplets on his tongue—the water rushing and gushing and bending. Somewhere, off in the distance, if he extends his perception just enough, he can see the other side of the river. He spots a boy slightly taller and no less of a child, and if he reaches out, stretches as far as he can, he can _feel _him: his hair, his warrior hands (unlike their fluctuating height difference, Madara's hands have always been a little smaller, always fit like a puzzle piece in Hashirama's tanned ones), the dizzying smile on his lips that Hashirama _and only Hashirama _could ever bring out in his best friend.

Tsunade's laughter shatters the image he's crafted, but he adds her in, imagines a world where he and Madara could have lived to be this old _together, _playing and laughing with his princess by the riverbank.

Impossible.

Hashirama braces himself, facing reality with a great smile that falls flat at the edges no matter how he tries: his reason for smiling—his reason for laughter and humor and silly little instances—has long since been dead.

Tiny fingers stretch up to his cheeks.

"What's wrong, grandpa?" Hashirama cringes.

And Hashirama is nothing but an empty corpse, a rotted, broken heart, fragments piercing through his ribcage, his lungs, his limbs, eating away every crevice of his body and maggot-ridden soul.

So he doesn't answer, shakes his head, and leans into her touch, murmuring that Madara would scold him, wouldn't he, because Madara always hated weakness.

He shouldn't still care what Madara would think. But that, too, is…

Impossible.


	16. A Bar of Coconut Soap

**A/N:** HashiMito with hints of prior HashiMada.

* * *

In their marriage, Hashirama Senju and Mito Uzumaki shared many firsts. The fruit of their honeymoon was one of passion, certainly, albeit the fumbling and twisting knot in his chest—the first time he lovingly and coherently slept with a woman. He fathered his first son nine months later, and during that stretch of time, experienced his first argument as a husband, slipped a marital secret, and lied a first lie to his wife. She, no more perfect than he, shouted, lied, said words she would later regret; but generally, if they could agree on one aspect of their relationship, it would be how happy they made one another, how they soothed the aches and burns across their souls, and how with each other, their hearts found peace.

An absence, however, lurks in Hashirama's chest, a gaping, endless chasm, and Mito senses it in every caress, in every unseeing gaze, in the routine way he sometimes makes love to her. She does not ask. In truth, he gives her no reason: if there is ever a moment she does not catch his attention, he is profuse in his apology, and if ever her curiosity spikes high enough, he blankets it with kisses.

But those dark, chocolate eyes of his shimmer with deep pain whenever they fall upon his best friend, and the wild-haired man mirrors that pain whenever he looks away, so perhaps it is better said that she does not ask because she already knows. She does not understand, cannot grasp the concept of it, but that is neither relevant nor her right to question.

* * *

After tucking a three-year-old Hirate away to the realm of dreams, Hashirama slips to his own room, strips himself bare, and replaces his Hokage robes with a striped jinbei set. His wife lies in bed, curled amongst the sheets, and it has been a long, long day of paperwork and stuffy, bickering elders; he sinks to the mattress with a breathy sigh, wrapping himself around and clinging to Mito's waist.

"How was work?" she asks, and he responds with an incoherent murmur, burying his nose deep within her beautiful, beautiful, _beautiful _red hair. She laughs, content with his nuzzling, and with her husband so close, warmth fans across her neck as he takes this great, big breath, inhaling her very essence, her scent.

Hashirama stiffens.

She peeks back, gaze falling on eyes wide with shock and the shimmer of pain, sparkling with this dark, dark hope. She does not ask.

"New shampoo?" he manages.

"…Yes. Is it not…to your liking?"

Silence. He shakes his head, delving further into her fiery tresses. His breathing slows, eyelids fluttering shut.

"I'm not a fan of coconut," he says, though he continues breathing it in, over and over, until dizzy and drunk on the scent. He clings to her tighter, closer, desperately, with a fervor much like the first time she fell asleep in his arms, as if he were a man hungry for a passion she could not sate.


	17. Hands

**A/N** slightly nsfw hashimada.

* * *

Hashirama's hands are eroded like rocks in river water; each fingertip a high mountain peak, each callous a road bump on the map of his palms. They carry the faint scent of musk and pine with each touch, and where sun-kissed skin meets the lighter tone of Madara's hips, a fierce bolt of electricity shoots down their spines.

Sometimes they carve trenches into Madara's back. Sometimes they melt in the heat of their arousal. Sometimes they ache, or clench, or tear to shreds; but afterwards, they are always gentle, soothing an unreachable burn or massaging the cut-up soles of Madara's feet. Without fail, his fingers always find the curve of Madara's jaw and trace up his cheek, learning and relearning the art of his enticing lips, the darkened skin under his eyes, the hollow-rounded combination of his cheeks.

In the quieter days, his arms may loop around Madara's shoulders and twine around the messy tangles of his midnight hair, twirling, twirling, or if he's granted the privileged, he may curl around him from behind—only _him, _only Hashirama, will ever near Madara's nape—and rake his fingers from his scalp to his split ends, working out the monstrous knots as any dutiful lover would.

Afterwards, when the dark beauty of their clandestine meeting fades for yet another month and both return to the reality of war, these very same hands are used to slaughter. Blood dries like stubborn glass deep underneath his fingernails, and when the battle ends with both he and Madara too injured to stand, he returns to the empty night with an sore body and aching heart. He scrubs, scrubs, scrubs, but the blood never washes away, and he's left in frustration as he stares up at the half-lit moon and looks down at his unclean hands.

One day, he promises the moon, not only these hands will also know the shape of Madara's fingers, the gaps between them, and the way they fit perfectly in his own—the entire world will know, too.


	18. Love

What Hashirama touched bled red beneath his eyes. His fingertips pricked the fullness of her skin, burning pockmarks into the roundness of her mounds, the slight curve of her hips, and the arc of her back against his calloused hand. But his was a double edged fire, scorching his own skin, his tongue, his teeth where they ravished. But his was unending, brutal, demented, and a sin to any other: what he loved in full, he loved only once, and in the shards of his kisses and the despair of his thrusts, his love was primal in pieces.

She was his wanting, his desperation, his safety of love; but what she reigned in his heart was broken and bruised. His was a labyrinth with locked doors and stolen keys. In their first night of lovemaking, she peeled away the first gate: his was a dying heart, which no medication but his other half could sate—and hers was not the right shape.

She was soft where _he _was hard, and she was slim where _he_ was toned. Her cries were soft, if not half-hearted, where _his_ were suppressed and golden. Her nipples, pert and ready, were a baby pink beneath Hashirama's hands, where _his _had been like crimson eyes, swirling and screaming against his fingernails.

For Mito was a gentle love, but Madara, _his _had been rough.

And Hashriama thought: that was what he needed, an easy love, one without struggle or pain; but what he came to know beneath the satin sheets was that he liked the challenge, the fucking and tearing and bruising and breaking. Most of all, when he completed his sin and implanted his seed in her womb, he knew of his insatiable need, and that only _he_ could quench it.

But he loved her anyway.

Her lips tasted of rose petals. She carried the scent of vanilla in her strawberry tresses, and he would grasp a lock of it, bring it to his nose, inhale, and place a lingering kiss. She would scold him for entering the kitchen, for burning his thumb, and would dutifully wrap it up long after he healed it. She would cook, and usually clean, and sometimes they would argue over whose turn it was to wash the dishes, but most of the time Hashirama did them regardless if his stack of paperwork did not climb too high.

With her, it was not so hard to pretend. To forget. To smile, and laugh, and joke about nonsense—to enjoy life. But his was an insatiable need, and he would carry that need to an eager grave, leaving behind his easy love.


	19. A False Dichotomy

**A/N:** Just something short I wrote for flammabellum. Happy birthday :D I wish I could do more, but this is my present to you—the Madara to my Hashirama, my partner in crime. Though…I might have borrowed Madara for this one, whoops.

* * *

His heart, a false dichotomy.

A creature of haunted eyes; of faded light, of resolute darkness; of firm-pressed lips; of blood and teeth. A man of reason: of sharp words; of either-or and secret between.

A man betrayed.

A warning: Dangerous, matters of the heart. Love will come and rise as if no winter could freeze, no death could kill; he will plant a seed and sprout each roots with promises. And they will strangle. He will give and reap, and take, and take, and take. He will gouge out a throbbing hole, rip it to shreds with the warmth of his hands and the comfort of his smile. He will gnaw it with gentle words, biting into the flesh until the blood bleeds black. The heart is fickle; but it will beat, and beat, and beat for him, even as Madara Uchiha drowns in the blood and chokes on his arteries, even as this man steals his breath with dying kisses.

While he was a man of reason, Hashirama Senju was love itself, and love followed the heart where it shouldn't: into the darkness. At some point, love lost itself in between the sheets, the kisses, the tongue-tangling and skin-breaking, and it was the black and white of reason that interfered.

Madara ended the affair.

It was odd, to call it such a thing. A simple word. But there was no break at all. His heart was a void—nothing more or less, an unending pit.

He survived. He _endured _as best as a shinobi does, from the quiet of the shadows. His eyes burned when they found that smile of love, unbearably hopeful beneath his gaze, so he did not look if he could help it, and especially if Hashirama's eyes were where they usually were: on his. Eyes were windows to the soul, as his love had once claimed, and they would betray him, his secrets, his void's desire, the unbearable ache that only numbers could numb, if he let them. So he worked. He did not look. Not during council meetings, not when Hashirama married, not when his friend held his son in his hands for the first time. His eyes found the child and the mother, but never Hashirama Senju; and if they did, they remained a resolute gray.

His void would not shatter until seven years later, waking to a hollowness in his mind's eye and a black hole in his chest, sucking and pulling the remnants of his soul. After waking from the grips of a coma, waking for _Hashirama, _and learning of his death, Madara regretted a great many things, one of them not looking more.

So it was a miracle, then, if miracles existed, that he could look a century later. And they did a lot of it: as he stirred a simmering pot of soup, as he read aloud, as he picked out what outfit would suit his love best; as his love scrubbed the dishes clean, as he folded the laundry, as he laughed again—that laugh, a soft caress, that smile, so tender as to sate the need of his heart's black hole. Sometimes they would lay in silence, absolute silence, watching each other for hours. Sometimes they would touch each other with only their gazes, or sometimes with the addition of their hands.

Madara was content to fill this role, to allow his eyes to whirl into the eternal mangekyou without remorse. What Hashirama kissed melted to his blood, singeing his heart once more, and now he bled all shades of gray, and colors too—not the black and white of reason.

Hashirama Senju was poison. But he was the kind you could not live without: the kind he had hated and he had loved, the kind that cursed him with his lips, and Madara Uchiha would not have it any other way.


End file.
